A Tale of Living and Dying
by Heiligenschein
Summary: "A man's dying is more his survivor's affair than his own." -Thomas Mann. Peter Burke deals with the aftermath of a personal tragedy.
1. Chapter 1

**In case there's any confusion: I don't own White Collar**

_A man's dying is more his survivor's affair than his own.  
_Thomas Mann,

German novelist, short story writer, social critic, philanthropist and essayist

_How did I not see this coming?_ Special Agent Peter Burke wonders as he stares down the barrel of a gun. One second he and Neal are talking to their informant, the next the man draws a gun and points it straight at their faces. Peter lifts his hands in a placating manner.

"We can talk about this. There is no need for violence."

The guy only smirks. His gloved fingers twitch on the trigger.

Peter jumps aside on instinct, seeking cover behind a couch, and draws his own weapon.

Unfortunately, the other man is faster. Peter hears a muffled shot and the _thud_ of a body hitting the ground, followed by quickly receding footsteps. His eyes widen in horror. Neal!

Peter looks around the corner of the couch and tries to aim at the fleeing form. His line of fire is blocked by some kind of sculpture. Damn it!

"Freeze! FBI! Drop the gun and lift your hands so I can see them!" Peter shouts, but the man doesn't react. He just keeps keeps striding towards the balcony doors. He's almost out of sight when Peter pulls the trigger.

The man yelps, but disappears from view before Peter has the chance to fire again.

Diana and Jones are the first ones to burst through the door, guns first and faces determined.

"Freeze! FBI! Drop your weapon!"

Peter has never been more thankful to see his team, yet he barely notices the agents that storm into the room. His eyes are focused on Neal, who lies prone on the floor, half hidden behind another monstrous sofa.

Neal, who has yet to move again.

"Neal?" Peter tries.

There is no response.

"Neal?" he tries again, louder this time.

Nothing. Not even a stir.

Peter's heartbeat quickens. He crawls over to the motionless form of his partner and hesitates a moment, to brace himself for the worst before he grabs Neal's shoulder and rolls his limp body very carefully onto his back. He presses two fingers against Neal's throat and sighs with relief. The steady pulsing beneath his fingers is barely perceptible, but it's there.

His elation, however, is short-lived as he discovers a ragged hole in his partner's suit jacket, right below the ribs. He swiftly unbuttons the jacket and pushes the fabric aside. Damn!

"Somebody get a doctor in here!" he calls out to his agents without averting his gaze from Neal. He swallows hard, when he takes in the dark crimson stain that is steadily spreading on Neal's pristine white shirt. Absurdly, it reminds him of the time someone spilled a glass of red wine on Neal during a sting, who then had to walk around in a stained suit the whole evening. Neal was not amused and sulked about with a petulant look on his face.

Diana and Peter had a good laugh about that...

This time it's not funny. Not in the slightest.

And this is definitely not the right time to be thinking about such trivialities, Peter reminds himself.

He shakes his head and tries to focus on what he knows about the treatment of gunshot wounds. He has to stop the bleeding. That much is obvious.

Peter presses his hands on the wound as hard as he can. Neal's body twitches slightly.

Peter tries to address him again. "Neal?" Pale eyelids flutter. "Neal? Can you hear me?"

Neal groans and his eyes open slightly.

"Everything's gonna be okay," Peter tells him.

Another groan. Neal's eyes are still half-closed.

Peter feels Diana's presence behind him, but he doesn't turn around.

"Help's on its way, Boss," she announces in a slightly shaky voice. Peter doesn't answer her. His attention is too focused on the warm, sticky liquid that's briskly coating his fingers. His hands don't suffice to keep the blood loss at bay. He needs something to absorb the blood. A towel, a cloth...The first absorbent thing within reach happens to be a fancy little sofa cushion. That will have to do.

Neal gasps out and squeezes his eyes shut, as Peter presses the pillow against his oozing wound.

"Look at me, buddy!" Peter implores him. "I need you to look at me."

Neal pries his eyes open again and holds Peter's gaze, albeit with obvious difficulty. Peter's breath hitches in his throat. He can practically see life leaving his friend. It's rapidly fading from those usually bright and vibrant blue eyes. Now they're dimming, struggling to focus.

They're running out of time.

All too soon the pillow is soaked; Neal is bleeding too much. Peter grabs another one and Neal's eyes drift closed again. This time the young man doesn't even wince, when Peter uses all his might to press the wound shut. Somewhere in the background he can hear Jones' booming voice shouting orders.

"Hang on kid. You're gonna be okay," Peter tries to soothe Neal, and himself for that matter, although the ever-growing pool of blood beneath them indicates otherwise. How long since Neal has been hit? Two minutes? Five? A lifetime? With each passing second he's slipping further away.

"Where are the goddamn paramedics?" he barks at no one in particular. Now is not the time to be diplomatic.

"I don't know," Diana whispers and gets down on her knees beside her two colleagues. Her two friends. She takes one of Neal's hands in both of hers and gasps. Peter throws her a questioning look.

"His skin is so cold," she explains in a whisper. Peter reaches out to touch Neal's cheek. Diana is right. Neal is cold. In fact, he's almost as cold as a- No! Peter wills his mind to not go there. He lets his fingers slide down Neal's damp skin, towards his throat, and checks his pulse. Frantic, but weak. Neal's heart is pumping like crazy to make up for the lack of oxygen due to blood loss, only to cause even more blood to spill out of the wound. A classical vicious circle.

Peter frowns. Rapid heartbeat, shallow breathing, cold and clammy skin... The pieces fall into place. Those are typical symptoms of a-

"Shock!" Peter gasps out and removes his jacket. He drapes it over Neal's shivering form. "He's going into shock! We need to keep him warm!"

Diana sheds her jacket as well, and places it under Neal's head. She strokes a few strands of hair out of his damp forehead. "You're gonna be okay, Neal."

Her voice sounds unusually soft.

"Kkk..Ka...Ka...Kate?" Neal croaks, breath rattling in his throat. "Kate?"

Peter and Diana exchange a look. "No Neal. It's Diana and Peter," Peter explains, distress obvious in his voice.

Neal talking to dead people is not a good sign.

"P..P...Pet'r? Where's Ka...te?"

The weak, barely audible whisper of Neal's voice is accompanied by a strange gurgling sound that sends chills down Peter's spine. Before he can come up with an answer to Neal's question, the young man starts choking and twisting. He coughs up blood, lots of blood, that's bubbling on his lips and trickling down the corner of his mouth. Peter shivers.

He tries to sit Neal up so he can breathe better, but the twitching body complicates the matter. With Diana's help Peter manages to hoist Neal into a somewhat stable position against his chest. Neal's fingers clench weakly into the fabric of his sleeves in the desperate need to hold onto something, as agony passes through him.

After one last, heavy convulsion Peter feels Neal's body slacken in his arms.

"Neal?" No reaction. "Come on, Neal! Answer me!" he growls and suppresses the urge to shake his friend till he responds. "Damn it! Don't you die on me!"

Diana leans forward and puts two shaky fingers on Neal's throat. It takes Peter a moment to realize that she's searching for a pulse.

"Peter, I-," Diana starts, but the paramedics come rushing in before she can finish her sentence. Peter is thankful for that. He's not sure he wants to hear what she has to say. Ignorance is bliss.

Peter struggles to his feet and takes a few steps back, to make room for the paramedics, but his eyes never leave the horrid spectacle in the middle of the room. There's a lot of blood. It spreads everywhere, seeps into every corner and sullies everything on its way.

A dozen frenzied FBI agents leaving bloody footsteps on the white carpet.

A handful of bloodied paramedics working on a lifeless body.

A few blood-soaked pillows lying around.

A single fedora sitting faithfully next to its owner.

Peter averts his eyes from the bloodbath and looks down his own body. He's covered in blood. Neal's blood.

Jones appears next to him, seemingly out of nowhere, and puts a comforting hand on his shoulder. Peter lifts his head looks at his agent. He can see Jones lips move, but all he can hear is the frenetic beating of his heart behind his eardrums.

_Babum. _

_Babum. _

_Babum._

Peter feels like all the air has been sucked out of the room. He loosens his tie, not caring about the blood stains he leaves on it, and opens a few buttons of his already bloodied shirt. It doesn't help. He cannot breathe. He's suffocating.

Damn it! Peter draws in several deep breaths to calm his erratic heartbeat and get rid of the constricting sensation inside his chest.

That's when the smell hits him full force. The nauseating reek of blood fills his nostrils and clouds his thoughts. Coppery and penetrating. Neal's blood... Peter grabs a chair for support, when he feels his knees weaken and his stomach churn. An acid bile is slowly rising up his throat, burning his oesophagus. He futilely tries to swallow it back.

Ultimately, he doubles over and heaves up, again and yet again.

There are hands grabbing him, pulling him, pushing him.

He doesn't care.


	2. Chapter 2

**Two hours later. **

The doctor, a slender woman with wild blonde hair and dark blue eyes, tells him he had a panic attack. Preposterous. He was just a little dizzy, which is, considering the circumstances, perfectly understandable.

Peter tries to rise from his bed, but the doctor keeps him firmly in place. She's definitely stronger than she looks.

"You should rest a little longer."

"I don't need to rest. I'm fine," he tells her, harsher than intended.

She narrows her eyes at him. "You're most certainly _not _fine, Agent Burke!"

"In comparison to my partner I am." Peter snaps. His patience is wearing thin. "He was shot! I need to see him immediately!"

He manages to sit up this time.

Whether the doctor likes it or not, he is going to see Neal.

Jones, who has been watching the exchange silently until now, obviously recognizes the resolute expression on Peter's face and decides to step in.

"I'll keep an eye on him," he offers.

The doctor seems slightly appeased. "I take your word for this, Agent Jones. Anxiety attacks are not to be underestimated."

Jones nods. "We'll keep that in mind. Thank you, doctor."

They don't talk as they walk across the emergency room, past overworked nurses and upset patients. Each agent is immersed in his own thoughts.

When they finally arrive at their destination, Peter is greeted by his distraught wife.

Elizabeth immediately throws her arms around him and snivels, "Thank God, you're okay."

Peter is glad he was prudent enough to wash his hands and change into different clothing. The dark jacket with the bold yellow letters may attract attention, but it's still less conspicuous and unsettling than the alternative.

Peter presses El's tiny frame against his chest and buries his face in her hair. She's his safe haven through every storm, physical or emotional. For a moment he allows himself to indulge in her comforting presence before he kisses her on top of her head and pulls away.

"What did I miss? How is he?" The questions are directed at Diana, who sits on one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs with Neal's hat resting on her lap. She was the one who stayed with Neal while Peter was... indisposed.

"He flatlined. Twice. First in the hotel, then in the ambulance. But they managed to revive him," Diana explains. "Right now he's in emergency surgery. We have to wait for further information."

So they wait, each of them dealing with the situation in their own way, while Elizabeth takes care of them. She supplies them with coffee and snacks. Nobody gets anything down, but they all appreciate the effort.

After about half an hour of stillness, Peter starts to pace back and forth, from one end of the room to the other, with his eyes glued to the doors that separate surgical ward and public area. Neal is behind those doors, fighting for his life.

Peter feels Jones' eyes following his every movement. He pointedly ignores it, but the monitoring still angers him. He's not the one Jones should worry about. He's _fine_.

Mozzie is staring as well, but his gaze is directed at the blank wall. He has not uttered a single word since he arrived, not even to express his dislike for hospitals. Peter vaguely remembers that Neal reacted similarly on the day Mozzie was shot.

"Please sit down and eat something, Peter! You look awfully pale," El pleads and Peter relents. He doesn't want her to worry any more about him than she already does.

Diana fidgets nervously and tugs on the hem of her blouse, as Peter takes the seat across from her. She looks miserable. Only now he realizes that she never had the chance to change her clothing. She still wears her bloodstained pantsuit. Peter swallows and looks away.

After what felt like an eternity, a scrub-clad man heads towards the waiting area. Peter jumps from his chair and meets the doctor halfway, with Elizabeth firmly by his side. She clasps his hand. Out of the corner of his eyes Peter sees the rest of their group rising from their seats.

"Family of Neal Caffrey?" the doctor asks and studies the crowd that has gathered around Peter.

Peter clears his throat, "I'm Special Agent Peter Burke. Neal Caffrey's my partner."

"We _are_ his family," El interposes.

The doctor nods. "I'm Dr. Bomer, Agent Caffrey's emergency surgeon."

Peter almost smiles. _Agent Caffrey._ Neal would love that.

"As you may know, Mr. Caffrey sustained a severe gunshot wound to...," Dr. Bomer spouts a lot of medical mumbo jumbo like "abdominal vascular injury" and "refractory hemorrhagic shock". Peter doesn't really listen to him. The grave look on Bomer's face tells him all he needs to know.

Neal is gone.

"I'm sorry for your loss."

Dr. Bomer offers his commiserations in a soft, practiced voice, that consists of an odd mixture of appeasement, professional detachment and genuine compassion. It's a voice Peter himself used more times than he cares to count, and all the same he never realized how hollow it sounded.

He thinks he's going to be sick again.

The doctor gives them a final nod and another "My deepest condolences!" before he hastens away from the misery. Peter can emphasize with the surgeon about that. The only thing that keeps him from bolting as well is Elizabeth's firm grip. She clutches his arm so hard it's painful, while she sobs into his chest.

"I think...," his voice is rough. He clears his throat. "I think we should sit down."

Peter steers her back to the chairs, where Diana and Jones whisper softly to each other. Jones hand rests on Diana's knee, while she clings to the hat in her lap like it is a lifeline.

El takes a few breaths to calm herself. "Oh Peter! Neal... what... I can't believe..."

"Shhh... It's alright, honey. I'm here." He puts an arm around her shaking frame and strokes her hair.

Mozzie plants himself in front of Peter and darts him a murderous look.

"This is your fault," he seethes. "And you know it! You constantly endangered his life without a second thought."

Peter doesn't have it in him to object. He's tired and shocked, and deep down there's a part of him that agrees with the little man.

"He's dead, Suit!"

Peter winces.

"Dead and gone, because of you!"

"Mozzie-" El tries.

"First you robbed him of his freedom, then of his free will and now finally of his life. You-"

"Mozzie, I think this is enough," Elizabeth cuts in. Her voice sounds surprisingly strong.

Mozzie darts a final withering glance at them before he turns around and leaves without another word.

"He didn't mean it," El assures Peter. "He's hurt. Hurt people lash out."

He shakes his head and sighs. "I know."

Mozzie was right though. Neal was... gone because of him. It was Peter's responsibility, his duty, as an agent and as a friend to keep Neal out of harm's way. To protect him.

Peter failed and Neal paid the ultimate price.


	3. Chapter 3

**Two days later. **

Peter spent the last 48 hours in a limbo between awareness and bewilderment, while he tried to comprehend something that is beyond his comprehension. Everything feels so... surreal.

Three days ago Neal sat with him at his dining table and, for the umpteenth time, stole the toy out of his cereal box. Now Peter is sitting at that very table, editing the eulogy he wrote for Neal's funeral.

He sighs and rubs his hands across his tired face. Sleeping is impossible these days. Not that being awake is much better. The images haunt him, whether his eyes are closed or not. Blood, cold black eyes, Neal's pale face twisted in agony, a cruel smirk, and blood, blood, blood everywhere.

"Are you all set, honey? Clinton will be here in a few minutes," El reminds him. She sounds as weary as he feels. Peter lifts his head and meets her gaze.

"I am."

They don't talk any more. Not while they wait and not during the car ride. Silence always helps Peter to keep himself together.

The funeral is a curious gathering. Other than Elizabeth and Peter, June and what looks like her entire family sit in the front row. The elder lady snivels silently into her tissue. Behind her Peter discovers Sara next to Diana, Jones, Hughes and a lot of other agents. He even spots Lauren Cruz.

Beside Neal's friends from the Bureau quite a lot of... old acquaintances decided to pay their last respects to him. Most of them Peter has never seen before (except maybe on wanted posters), but a few faces are familiar. Like Alex Hunter or Gordon Taylor. For once Peter does not care about their shady business dealings. They are Neal's friends and they grieve, just like everybody else.

And then there's Mozzie, whose hateful glare sends chills down Peter's spine. He's somewhat surprised the con man showed up at all, he half expected him to disappear into thin air. Without Neal, there is no reason for him to stay.

The casket is closed, for which Peter is incredibly thankful. He couldn't bear to see Neal's pallid and lifeless face again. Once was more than enough.

As Neal's handler and official next of kin, he had to officially confirm that the dead man was indeed Neal Caffrey.

The sight of Neal's corpse will probably haunt him for the rest of his life, but at least the authorities can be positive that Neal's death certificate is legitimate this time around. That's the main thing, isn't it? Peter thinks sardonically.

Peter steps forward, the speech tightly clutched into his fist. He clears his throat and the whispering crowd falls silent. El gives him an encouraging nod. He takes a deep breath.

"I'm not very good with words. At least not as good as Neal. But then again, who is?" he starts, his voice shaky. "And what is there to say anyway?

"Neal was a mystery, full of ambiguity and secrets and contradictions. He had a remarkable sense of justice for someone who constantly broke the law. He was sophisticated, yet immature. Deliberate, yet impulsive. Dishonest, yet sincere...

I think it's safe to assume that none of us knew the whole story, but that's okay. It was part of Neal's charm.

"Today I want to tell you a little about the Neal I knew, who probably was different than the one you knew. He may not even have been Neal Caffrey, when you met him. Maybe he was Nick Halden or Steve Tabernackle or George Devore... or whatever name he used at the time." Peter lets a small smile play on his lips. "I remember _my_ first encounter with Neal like it was yesterday. I was investigating a case of forged bonds in Midtown, when a young man with unruly hair and a sly smile approached me. At first, I thought nothing of it, when he inquired about my profession. But after he thanked me for my work and gave me a green sucker, all the while a twinkle of mischief in his eyes, I began to wonder. By that time Neal had, of course, already disappeared into the crowd," Peter clears his throat. "Little did I know, that this meeting would be the beginning of an unlikely friendship. Throughout the following years Neal sent me countless postcards, called me in the middle of the night from international numbers and sent champagne to our surveillance van." Some people chuckle. "When I finally caught him, after three years of chasing him across two continents, it was because I used his greatest weakness: his big heart. When Neal loves...," Peter pauses for a moment, "lov_ed_ someone or something, his devotion knew no limits.

"How life goes, his greatest weakness was also his greatest strength. It made him the best partner, the best friend one could have." Peter pauses again, longer this time. It takes all his strength to keep his voice even. "Neal was a great man.

"We can consider ourselves lucky that we had the chance to know him."

Peter glances at the shiny black coffin and his eyes water. "We'll miss you, buddy."

He returns to his seat with shaky legs.

"That was beautiful, honey." El whispers to him. Her eyes are red and puffy from all the crying. Peter acknowledges her praise with a weak smile. He doesn't trust his voice.

He manages to keep it together until the minister is done with his sermon. When they lower the casket into the ground, Peter finally loses his cool. He openly sobs into Elizabeth's shoulder, who sobs along with him. This is it. The end. Neal is not coming back.


	4. Chapter 4

**Two weeks later. **

It's Peter's first day back at the Bureau and he wishes, not for the first time, that his office walls weren't made of glass. He can feel their concerned glances and pitiful looks.

During the last few days Peter longed for normalcy. He needed structure and something useful to do. Coming back to the office and reassuming his daily routine seemed like a step in the right direction.

Elizabeth disagreed, arguing he was not ready "to face the outside world", because "it isn't that easy to go back to business".

He realized too late how right El's apprehensions were.

How do you reassume your routine, when a crucial part of it is missing?

Peter was already at June's house this morning by the time he remembered that he didn't need to pick up Neal. Ever again. He cannot recall how he made it to the office after that.

He takes a sip of his coffee and grimaces; today the stuff tastes even worse than usual. Peter frowns. That seems to be some kind of pattern lately. Everything is worse. The traffic, the gas prices, the rate of unemployment, the global warming...

A knock on his door interrupts his nonsensical musings and causes him to look up from the mug in his hands.

It's Rodolphus Doyle, his new colleague and very own personal watchdog.

Peter groans inwardly. _Great_. A compliance visit is just what he needs right now.

"Agent Doyle, what can I do for you?"

The weathered agent gives Peter a worried once-over, "I wanted to see how you were doing."

"I'm fine," Peter replies tersely.

"You need to see a counselor nonetheless. A psychological evaluation is required-"

"I know," Peter cuts him of. "I already made an appointment."

Doyle's expression hardens. "All right. I'll leave you to your work," he hesitates a moment, "But Agent Burke? You concentrate on _your_ area of responsibility. Let NYPD and Violent Crimes handle the rest."

Peter tenses up. _The rest. _Also known as case file **NYC2013-250391, Homicide, Neal George Caffrey**.

"Yes, sir," he replies stiffly.

After one last pointed look Doyle leaves Peter alone with his thoughts.

Peter sighs and rubs his hand across his face. Is this day ever going to end?

His mood darkens even more, when his eyes drift down to the bullpen. Neal's vacant desk has been in his direct line of sight all day, a glaring reminder of the young man's absence.

It looks exactly like Neal left it, as though he could come back any minute, bringing muffins and fresh coffee. As though nothing has happened.

Peter can't stand it.

He waits till the end of the day to empty the drawers and place Neal's personal items into an empty box. The rubber band ball, the little bust, the pens Neal lifted from just about everywhere and everyone, a team picture, his origami paper, his sketch-pad and finally his tie collection. After a couple of minutes the desk is empty and every trace of Neal is gone. Like he has never been here.

Peter closes the carton and slumps down into Neal's chair.

He stares at the box, contemplating what to do with it. He feels torn.

He doesn't want to remember, because every memory hurts like a punch in the gut.

He doesn't want to forget either, because Neal deserves to be remembered.

Only a few agents are left to watch him as he communes with his heart. Diana is one of them. She walks over and sits down on the edge of the table.

"Hey Boss."

"Diana."

"What are you gonna do with... this?" Her gaze is focused on the box with Neal's belongings.

Peter sighs. "I don't know."

Diana nods slowly and Peter notices the wistful look on her face. Suddenly, he knows _exactly_ what to do. He opens the lid again, fishes the bust out of the carton and hands it Diana. The female agent looks baffled.

"Neal would want you to have it. To inspire your wisdom or something like that."

A small smile plays on Diana's lips as she returns to her desk and positions the little sculpture right next to a picture of Theo.

Peter then knows he did the right thing. This way a part of Neal will still be here with them, but not in the form of a shrine. He moves through the bullpen and places selected items on the desks of his team.

The photograph, the sketch-pad and the tie collection, however, remain tucked away in the box.

Peter knows exactly, what his next stop will be.

June sits on her couch with the little pug by her side.

"Good evening, Peter. Please take a seat," she greets him. "To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?"

He clears his throat, "I'm sorry to bother you, but today...I...," he pulls out the ties. "I thought you might want to have them back."

She blinks a couple of times and smoothes out the wrinkles of her black skirt. "That is very thoughtful of you. Thank you."

An awkward silence ensues. Peter shifts uncomfortably.

"Would you mind if I...?" he gestures towards the stairs.

"No, of course not," her sad eyes meet his. The last two weeks have taken a toll on her as well. "Take all the time you need."

Peter gives her a grateful smile.

The way upstairs takes him longer than usual. The last two weeks are catching up with him.

He pauses in the doorway and takes in the studio. Time stands still in here. Just like Neal's desk, the apartment remained untouched. There's an unfinished painting sitting on the easel, an open book on the bedside table, a towel thrown over the back of a chair...

Yet it's cold and empty.

The most important entity is missing.

A very tiny, very irrational part of Peter is disappointed. He knew, Neal wouldn't be here. Hell, he identified the body! But still... Seeing Neal's apartment without him in it feels like he's dying all over again.

Does that even make sense?

Peter takes a bottle from Neal's wine collection, pours himself a glass and walks onto the balcony. Memories threaten to overwhelm him, as he enjoys the breathtaking view for what will probably the last time. The first days of their partnership, the music box, Kate, Fowler, Keller, Adler, the treasure, Kramer, James, Hagen, Rebecca... Everything that has happened during the last few years flickers through his mind like a movie. They have been through so much together... Neal became part of his life, his family.

What is he going to do without him?


	5. Chapter 5

**Two years later. **

Diana barges into Peter's office on a Tuesday around noon.

"They found him, boss!" Found whom? He tears his eyes away from his computer and looks at her, uncomprehending.

"They found the bastard that killed Neal," she clarifies. Peter stiffens. He tries to ignore the memories that flicker on the periphery of his mind at the mention of Neal.

The image of his best friend, lying bled to death in the middle of a fancy hotel suite. The sound of his death rattle...

He regains composure after a few deep breaths.

"Apparently he's a hired hit. His DNA matches the samples from various crime scenes, including the ones from the penthouse," Diana continues.

"What's his name?"

"Henry Smart." _Henry Smart. _The face that haunts his dreams finally has a name.

"Where is he?"

"7th floor."

Peter rises from his seat and grabs his suit jacket. Diana is still standing on the other side of his desk, an unreadable expression on her face.

"Do you want me to come with you?"

Peter considers her offer for a moment. He knows the events of that fateful day affected her almost as much as him. She tried to hide it, but Peter knew her long enough to notice the changes in her behavior after Neal's death.

"No." He needs to do this alone.

The elevator ride takes excruciatingly long. He should have taken the stairs.

Peter hurries down the corridor towards the interrogation rooms. A middle-aged agent stops him right before his destination.

"Can I help you?"

"I need to talk to a suspect," Peter declares. "Henry Smart."

The agent raises his eyebrows.

"I'm Special Agent Tim Dekay and in charge of the Smart case," he says, still blocking Peter's way. "And you are?"

"Special Agent Peter Burke, White Collar division." Dekay's eyes light up with realization.

"I can't let you see him, Agent Burke."

"Excuse me?"

"I can't let you see him," Agent Dekay repeats. "This is my case."

"You don't understand! Smart murdered my partner!" Peter snarls and clenches his hands into fists. He waited two years for this day. Two agonizing years on the sidelines. They can't take this away from him! He deserves to look the bastard in the eyes and to rub in his face, how he will never ever see the light of day again. How he will rot in prison for what he has done. "I-"

"That's the problem." Dekay interrupts him, utterly unimpressed with Peter's outburst. "You're not thinking clearly. It could compromise our entire case, if I let you talk to him now." He eyes Peter up. "Or whatever it is you plan on doing with him."

"I'm a witness! I could-"

Dekay shakes his head. "Not now. Come back once your feelings have cooled down and we'll have a line-up." His voice is firm, but his eyes are kind. Peter wonders how much the agent knows. "Take the afternoon off and go home, Burke. You'll get your shot at retribution in court, when you testify against him."

His tone is final and tolerates no dissent. On any other day Peter would approve of steadfastness, but not today. Peter presses his lips together and gives Dekay a curt nod.

He leaves without another word.

Peter decides to make a detour on his way home. He needs to clear his head before he faces Elizabeth and he knows just the right place to do that. A place that, ironically, used to be Neal's refuge during his time on the run. The young con man went there to find peace, when his life fell apart and all he could do was wait for the others to make the next move.

Peter parks his car and walks the rest of his way along the river to his destination.

The jetty always looks the same. A constant in Peter's life.

Whenever he has a particularly bad day, he visits this spot and takes a break from everyday life.

Sometimes he comes here and thinks about Neal. Like the first birthday in a decade without a card from Neal or the day Neal's sentence would have been officially fulfilled.

It has been months since his last visit. Life has been busy.

Peter rests his arms on the railing and looks across the river at the city's skyline, and for a moment he can pretend that he left all his sorrows on the other side of the running water.

Satchmo welcomes him with an excited bark and a wagging tail, when he arrives at home.

"Peter?" Elizabeth calls from the kitchen.

"Yeah." He hangs up his jacket and pats his dog on the head.

"You're home early. Is everything okay?"

Peter takes a photo of Neal and himself from the bookshelf.

"Honey?"

El peaks around the corner, when he doesn't answer. She comes to stand beside him and places her hand on his shoulder. He leans into her, enjoying the touch.

She smiles softly. "I really like this picture."

"Me too," Peter murmurs and puts it back on the shelf. "They arrested Neal's killer last night."

Her grip on his shoulder tightens, but other than that they both don't move or talk for a long time. The silence is soothing.

Eventually, El gets a bottle of wine from the kitchen and leads him to the couch. They sit down, drink and remember. Elizabeth tells about her favorite moments with Neal and Peter tells her about his. They laugh at Neal's antics and bicker about his odd fascination with hats. Peter hasn't felt this good in a long time. With each anecdote he feels a little warmer, a little more at ease. It's nice to have someone to share your memories with. When Neal was first gone, everything they had been through together seemed less real. Like some fantastical dream.

He sobers up, when he realizes the sad truth behind his thoughts.

A memory, that is all Neal is. A cherished one, yes. But still just a memory.

Life goes on.

And now that Neal's murderer is finally under arrest, nothing is keeping Peter in New York any longer. After more than a decade the chapter of his life called "Neal Caffrey" might be coming to an end once and for all. Peter doesn't know how to feel about that.

And like she knows exactly what is going on in Peter's head, El takes hold of his hand and squeezes it. It's a small, reassuring gesture that reminds him he's not alone.


	6. Chapter 6

**Two decades later. **

Peter's eyes roam across the three framed photos on his desk. He finds himself doing that a lot recently. Maybe I'm becoming sentimental in my old age, he thinks wryly. He spent the last decades of his life looking forward, but now that his time at the Bureau is coming to a close, it may be the right time to look back for once. An important part of his life is almost over and that deserves to be acknowledged. His work with the FBI and the people he met made him the man he is today.

Peter's eyes drift back to the pictures. The first one is a picture of Elizabeth and him from their 35. wedding anniversary and the second one is of his latest promotion a few years back. Both photographs feature important events in his life. Yet it's the third, slightly yellowed snapshot of four blithe people, that captures his attention. It is a remnant of bygone times, having been taken over 20 years ago on a sidewalk in Manhattan. He remembers that day with unusual clarity. He and his team finally managed to take down a huge money laundering ring, after months of investigation, surveillance and undercover work. When they were standing on the street in front of the busted headquarters, joking around and basking in their success, a probie approached them and asked if he could take a photo. Neal being Neal, readily agreed.

From a professional point of view, the picture is imperfect. Jones' has his hands stuffed in his pockets, Diana's eyes are hidden behind her sunglasses, Peter's tie is loosened and Neal's hat is perched somewhat crookedly on his head. But the way they lean into each other, with the same contented smile gracing all of their faces... That's what makes it perfect to Peter. A moment of unadulterated happiness, frozen in time forever.

He obtained little satisfaction from the assassin's conviction, because in the end it didn't change a damn thing. No verdict could bring Neal back. No verdict could fill the void in their midst. No verdict could fix what broke inside Peter that day in the penthouse.

In the years following Neal's untimely demise their team slowly fell apart. Working together just wasn't the same anymore, the group dynamics were... damaged. Diana and Jones did their best to bridge the gap, but when it comes down to it their presence made Neal's absence even more pronounced.

Peter never found it with another person, that undefinable ease that constituted his partnership with Neal. Sure, he worked with a lot of fellow agents in the course of the years (sometimes more, sometimes less successful). But that is all they were to him. Fellow agents, colleagues, co-workers... never partners.

Peter sighs and shakes his head. Enough of this. There is no need to dwell on that now. He came to terms with Neal's passing years ago.

What was it Elizabeth said?_ Don't cry because it's over, smile because it happened. We should remember all the good times we had with Neal. He wouldn't want us to be depressed, honey. He'd want us to drink vintage wine and tell people about his venturous deeds. He'd want us to live._

So yes, the ache of his loss may still be there, and Peter feels it whenever he crosses path with someone who wears a fedora or when he reads about some spectacular art heist in the paper, but eventually he learned to live with it.

Nowadays he almost welcomes the slight twinge in his chest, as a memento of the mere fact that Neal was really there. That their friendship was really there. Because in the end, that was what mattered.

Peter smiles. His wife is a very wise woman.

He glances at his watch. If he hits the road now, he has enough time for a stop at the wine store before dinner.

After one last look at the pictures Peter rises from his seat, puts his jacket on and turns off the light.

_Ende_


End file.
